


On the Shore

by daymarket



Category: Avatar: The Last Airbender, Pacific Rim (2013)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Alternate Universe - Still Have Powers, F/M, Family, Kaiju, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Saving the World
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-26
Updated: 2014-08-26
Packaged: 2018-02-13 22:52:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2168262
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/daymarket/pseuds/daymarket
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the quiet of the Drift, there's only the steady presence of Zuko alongside her to help bear the responsibility of her family's safety. She knows there was a time when the kaiju didn't exist, but here in the midst of the storm, all she can do is to keep on fighting.</p>
            </blockquote>





	On the Shore

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Burning_Nightingale](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Burning_Nightingale/gifts).



> Happy Crossovering, Burning_Nightingale! This is an A:tLA fusion into Pacific Rim, and it started out as something a bit...well, lighter, I guess, but as fics tend to do, it changed a bit on me. There are a few missing scenes that I didn't have the time to put in, but hopefully it doesn't feel too weird or rushed. Enjoy!
> 
> Katara and Zuko are aged up a bit--I see Zuko as being 18-19, while Katara is 16-17.

_Now_

In moments like these, the world narrows down to single points: the kaiju, arcing out of the sea ahead of them. The taste of metal on her tongue, the keen awareness of water all around them. And more than anything else, she can feel the clarity of Zuko’s mind, each of his thoughts sharp and precise. His eyes are narrowed as he tracks the kaiju’s lumbering path, and she sees the weak point in its armor at the same time that she does. _Now_ , he whispers, his thoughts far more intimate than any voice.

Here, in the heart of the mecha, she understands him perfectly. In perfect synchrony, they bring their arms up in a sweeping arc. Zuko’s no waterbender and she’s no firebender, but together, they’re more than the sum of their parts. The roiling water rises up in a seething, boiling wave that crashes into the kaiju, sending billows of steam rising from its hide. The kaiju screams but continues to charge, lumbering towards them with terrifying force.

 _Brace_ , the thought comes—she’s not sure if it’s hers or his, but when the kaiju slams into them, they’re ready. A touch of Zuko’s chi sets their arm ablaze, and she grabs the kaiju in a fiery grip, gritting her teeth as it flails in her grasp. With their other hand, now a blade, they slice up and through its chest, sending the blue kaiju blood spilling across the ocean. It screams and thrashes, the entire mecha shaking with the force of its death throes. She feels the grinding screech of metal through her bones as it cracks the blade in a final convulsion, and Zuko nearly stumbles. Katara grabs him, holds him tight, and by some strange miracle, they stay standing until it goes limp in death. The corpse slides down to rest in the waters, large enough that it doesn’t disappear completely under the waves.

Their heartbeats are pounding madly, and Katara can feel every ragged pant being drawn up from her chest. No matter how many kaiju they take down, each and every one is still terrifying to face and even more terrifying to fight. She closes her eyes and sways in the pilot cradle, letting the adrenaline rush through her. _We did it_ , she says, feeling drained.

Zuko’s mind spikes in the background of her own, his thoughts tinged with pain. She turns to look at him, alarmed, but he shakes his head without looking at her. _I’m fine_ , he says, sounding terse. _My arm was just wrenched a bit_.

 _You should get that looked at,_ she says.

“I know,” Zuko mutters. “This isn’t my first fight.”

The words could be condescending, but his thoughts bleed enough exhaustion that she lets it go. She looks back at the kaiju corpse, mentally measuring its size in her mind. This is one of the bigger Category Three kaijus that they’ve faced, and she wonders briefly at what point it starts to tip over into Category Four. The thought is frightening, and she shoves it away. Zuko catches her fear—there’s no hiding it, not here—but thankfully, he doesn’t comment.

The radio crackles. “Calling Kya Dragon,” Sokka says, his voice warm and worried and familiar. “You guys still alive? Any injuries?”

Katara raises an arm and slaps on the transceiver. “We’re fine, Sokka,” she reports. She glances over at Zuko, who’s staring straight ahead. “Zuko got his arm busted a bit, but other than that we’re okay.”

“Knew you could do it,” Sokka says, and he’s trying to sound blithe but Katara can hear the relief in his voice. “Come on in, then. You guys might have trounced the kaiju but there’s good old nature to worry about. I’m not liking the looks of that storm.”

“Sir, yes, sir,” she says affectionately. She flicks the transceiver off and looks at Zuko again. His eyes are fixed out the window, and his thoughts are tight with tension. “You could be more depressing,” she says, trying to be playful. “We just won. Again.”

He doesn’t look at her, his eyes still studying the kaiju corpse. “I don’t like this,” he says. Behind his words swirls a cloud of worry: the few reports they’ve gotten from the main Shatterdome in the Fire Nation, the increasing frequency of attacks--not just in the South Pole, but everywhere. _We won’t be able to fight off two of these at once_ , he thinks grimly.

She'll admit that her breath hitches at that thought. She closes her eyes and draws in a long, careful breath, refusing to let the fear conquer her. “We’ll make it,” she says firmly. _We have to_ , she doesn’t add, but she knows that he hears her anyway. “Come on.” _Let’s head back. They’ll be waiting_. Lightly, she adds, _Sokka and Toph will want to yell at us about how careless we’ve been._

Zuko snorts, wearily amused. He twitches his hand, raising it up to study the blade arm. The length of it is crumpled like paper, and he lets it fall without bothering to resheath it. “We barely even dented it,” he says dryly.

He rolls his shoulders, and she can feel rather than hear the easing of the tension in his spine.She waits for him to finish stretching before they raise their feet together, turning the mecha around for home. The link is less intense now that they’re not in the midst of battle, but the Drift is always there, humming quietly in their minds. The storm rumbles in the distance, and she spares a rueful thought that even a storm barely merits a second glance compared to the kaiju. It's nothing compared to the turmoil, though muted, that's currently rumbling in Zuko's mind.

Sokka’s waiting for them when they exit the mecha, jittering nervously from foot to foot. He breaks out into a grin at the sight of her, and she stumbles forward into his arms as he wraps her up in a tight hug. She’s not sure when it became a ritual for them, but it’s an affirmation that they’re still alive—both of them, here in what remains of their home and family. They've done this ritual more times than she can count, but each and every time is still a welcome relief. They hold each other for a long moment before he laughs shakily in her hair. “Well, you only ruined a bit of my mecha,” he says. "I won't hold it against you this time."

“No guarantees on my part," Toph says as she emerges from the hatch. "Hey, Sugar Queen. Congratulations, you’re not dead." She moves swiftly with unerring ease across the metal grates, her blindness not slowing her down one bit. “What a surprise." Her head turns around in Zuko's direction. "Hey, Sparky, you want a hug? Seems only fair, since Sugar Queen’s getting one.”

“The humorless jerk is allergic to hugs,” Sokka announces. “They make him break out in oogies.”

"Hey!" Katara says, punching him in the shoulder. “What does even mean?” She looks at Zuko. "Don't feel bad. Sokka never makes sense."

“Mm. That's good,” Zuko says. That's a strange response even for him, and she knows Sokka well enough to know that there's a slight frown on his face. An aftereffect of the Drift, though, is that she knows Zuko even better than she does her own brother, and the worry in his mind is infectious. “Where’s my uncle?”

“On the lower command deck,” Sokka says, jabbing a thumb over his shoulder. “Why?” he calls as Zuko disappears down the ladder, the hatch swinging shut behind him. There’s no reply, and Sokka shakes his head before turning back to Katara. “Charming as usual, I see.”

“He’s just tired,” Katara says, trying to sound flippant. “We all are. Fighting giant monsters will do that to you.”

Sokka smiles ruefully and inclines his head. “Fair enough.” He releases her from the embrace and looks at her up and down. “I’m glad you guys made it back safe. There’s nothing like a giant metal mecha for attracting lightning in a storm.”

“Lightning doesn’t matter,” Toph calls out from the pilot room. “Actually, it’d be cool if we could electrify the frame when that happens. Zap the kaiju to death; that’d be fun. What’s up with Prince Grumpypants?”

“He’s just being…him,” Katara says, but the words don’t quite fit the tension she remembers in his mind. Sokka moves into the pilot room, and she trails him into the doorway. “And he has a name, Toph.”

“I’ll stop calling him nicknames the day he stops screwing my mecha up,” Toph calls as she inspects the pilot cradles. The right arm of Zuko’s cradle is ripped open, and she knows that Toph and Sokka are going to have his hands busy patching up the mecha before the next attack. “Hand me that welder, will you?”

She passes Toph the welder and drops a kiss briefly on Sokka’s forehead before stepping away. “I’m going down,” she says. “See you later.”

“See you,” Sokka says, turning towards Toph as they set to work fixing the mecha. She gives them a half-wave before climbing down the ladder to the lower deck, emerging out from Kya Dragon’s foot. The deck is busy as the Water Tribe hurries to fix their mecha, but most of them still look up and greet her with relieved hugs as she exits. She holds each and every one tight. Her family’s still safe. They’re here to fight another day.

Before leaving the dome, she looks back at Kya Dragon. The mecha is nothing to look at, really—old and dented, showing more than its fair share of rust. But it’s saved them more times than she can count, and there’s nothing more beautiful in her eyes.

“Good fighting, girl,” she whispers, and then she leaves the dome.

* * *

_Then  
_

The mecha is old and dented, rust creeping into every joint. It looks like a ruined wreck that’s one good push away from completely falling apart, and Katara feels fury start to replace the numbness in her stomach. This is what they’ve been sent? This is what their begging and lost lives have bought them? _This_ is supposed to save them?

The delegation from the Pact of Nations stands in front of them. Their leader—or at least the one who’s talking in a shout that’s trying to sound authoritative but is really more wobbly—can’t be more than a few years older than Katara herself, and she’s barely sixteen. “—and you will be safe now!” he says. He’s got some kind of nasty scar over much of his face, and combined with his wide eyes and clear almost-panic, he looks positively demented. “Empire’s Glory is a tried-and-tested veteran with an illustrious record of kaiju kills, and we have full confidence that—”

“It looks like it’s been tested, all right,” Sokka murmurs to her. “And then it flunked out and crawled home to die in shame.”

She can tell by the murmuring around them that her tribe shares the same thoughts. She cranes her head to look past the sweaty “leader” to study the rest of the delegation, wondering who exactly the mecha pilots are. None of the options are good: there’s an old man who has to be pushing seventy, a tall bearded man who looks bored and contemptuous of it all, a short woman—no, a _girl_ , they sent a teenager out here? a sullen-looking young man who looks ready to pick a fight, and it doesn’t get any better…

“This isn’t right,” she whispers fiercely. "This isn't what Mom died for--"

It’s louder than she intended, and the kid in charge clearly hears it. He turns an interesting shade of red, but she doesn’t care that his grand entrance has been ruined. It’s only her father's firm hand on her shoulder that keeps her from stepping out, but even then, it's still a close call. She glances up at him: Hakoda looks more disappointed than anything, but she can feel the anger in his grip. He steps forward, and the tribe wordlessly parts to let him through. “Surely you must understand our disappointment,” he says, his voice carefully neutral.

The boy—she refuses to call him a man—raises his chin. “It’s what the Pact of Nations has assigned to you,” he says stiffly. “Commander Zhao and Sangok are famous battle veterans.” He jerks a thumb at the men behind him; one sneers and the other looks bored. “They will serve you well.”

Every fiber of Hakoda’s being radiates skepticism. “Do they,” he says. The words are just barely polite. The tone is not. “Where is your commanding officer, boy?”

It’s somewhat funny and pathetic to see the boy swell with rage. “I am the commanding officer,” he says, trying to sound lofty but falling short. “I am Prince Zuko of the Fire Nation, and this is your—”

“ _Prince_ Zuko,” Hakoda says, laying full skeptical emphasis on the first syllable. Katara bites the inside of her cheek, refraining from adding her own commentary. “Of course. And you are the commanding officer?”

“Yes,” the boy says, and Katara wants to scream with despair. Her eyes flicker around the rest of the emissaries, but none of them step forward to claim the leader’s mantle from this boy just barely out of adolescence. “These men, and any of your people who want to live, will answer to me.” He juts his chin forward. “We will need an open space to set up the temporary dome, and people to help moving our equipment.”

Sokka leans forward to speak quietly in Katara’s ear. “Who wants to bet that the mecha’s going to fall apart before the dome gets warm?” he says. “Also, could his voice get any higher?”

“This isn’t time for joking, Sokka!” she says sharply. She casts another look at the mecha, hatred and disgust flaring up inside her. “Or maybe it is, because this is one gigantic joke, isn’t it. It’s nothing but a stupid—terrible— _joke_ —”

The boy’s head jerks up, his eyes blazing. His eyes find her, and she stares back into his face, her own hands clenched into fists. A ripple runs through the tribe, and Katara can feel the tension trembling all around them, almost tangible in its intensity. His hand swings up, and any second now a fight will erupt. She's ready for the fight, ready for him, and she's shaking in every bone and muscle and--

A hand reaches out and grabs the boy’s arm, forcing it down. Katara looks as the older man, the one dressed in Fire Nation colors, steps between them, smiling gently. “Now,” he says, and his voice is a deep rumble. “There’s no need for this.”

“Uncle!” the boy squawks.

“Prince Zuko and I have every confidence that Empire’s Glory will keep the Southern Water Tribe safe,” the man says, and his calm voice lends authority that the boy could never hope to match. “I am General Iroh of the Fire Nation forces. It is a pleasure to meet you.”

Hakoda and Iroh stare at each other for a long moment, no doubt silently sizing each other up. It seems like an eternity before Hakoda finally speaks. “The pleasure is mine,” he says, and it’s amazing how he manages to sound like he almost means it. “I am Chief Hakoda.”

“Chief Hakoda,” Iroh says gravely, “it is cold out here, and forgive me, but I am an old man used to warmer climes. Perhaps there is someplace where we can speak more civilly? I will be happy to answer any questions you may have.”

Hakoda inclines his head. “Come in,” he says. “We’ll be happy to speak to you, General Iroh,” he adds, pointedly excluding the prince.

The prince fumes. Iroh bows. “Then I will be happy to be spoken to,” he says. “Lead the way.”

* * *

_Now  
_

The hallway is filled with the familiar scent of tea, and she takes a moment to just close her eyes and breathe. When she opens her eyes and steps into the room, Iroh is waiting for her already. Dinner for two is laid out on the low table next to a simmering pot of tea. She doesn’t know where Iroh continues to get his tea out here in the South Pole, but she won’t ask. There’s little enough comfort out here.

“Was Zuko here earlier?” she asks, noting the half-full cup on one side. “I think he wanted to find you.”

“And he did,” Iroh says with a nod. “But I believe that he is asleep now. Will you join an old man for dinner, Katara?”

She smiles at him. “Of course,” she says, and she sits down cross-legged across from him. He pours her a cup of tea, which she accepts, inhaling deeply of the vapor. Tea, much like Iroh himself, is just innately comforting in this world of chaos. This is another ritual, and although she’s not sure exactly what it signifies, it’s one that she’ll be sad to lose. She closes her eyes as she sips, feeling its warmth spread through her.

She sets the cup down, picking up her chopsticks and taking a bite of the rice. Though bland, it wakens a voracious hunger in her, and she decides to try some of the fish next. “So,” Iroh says as he starts in on his own bowl. “How are you today, Katara?”

She smiles at him. “As good as I can be, General Iroh,” she says. “Given that there are giant monsters trying to kill us all.”

“An imminent threat, to be sure,” Iroh says. “Are you going to the festival tonight?”

She freezes with her chopsticks halfway to her mouth. The solstice festival. Right. They’ve had little enough to celebrate over the years, and the fact that the festival is being held at all is something to celebrate. But she’d forgotten all about it in the heat of battle, and really she just wants to get back to her bunk and sleep…

“I’d forgotten,” she admits. “I guess I should go, shouldn’t I? And it’ll be quiet for a while, since we had another attack just today.” She takes another bite of the fish, but it’s tasteless in her mouth.

“In the midst of battle, it is especially important to remember how to live,” Iroh says. “But you are hesitant, Katara?”

She sighs. “Just tired, General Iroh,” she says. “Protecting my family can be exhausting. Not that I’m not happy to do it,” she adds hastily. “I know that it has to be done, and I’d much rather do it than have the alternative happen.”

“Of course,” Iroh says gently. “I’m very proud of you, Katara,” he says. The praise shouldn’t mean anything coming from a Fire Nation general, but from Iroh—well. That’s something she can accept. “You have built a haven from what many people considered to be a lost cause.”

She smiles humorlessly, knowing exactly who “many people” refers to. “Many people are idiots,” she says.

Iroh shakes his head. “When politics begin to take over, human lives are often lost in the wayside,” he says. “When the kaiju first attacked, it was nearly two years of attacks before the nations agreed, however begrudgingly, to work together. Years more to perfect the mechas to utilize bending, and another year before the nations agreed to combine their bending abilities for the protection of all. Imagine what could have been accomplished otherwise.”

“I _know_ what could have been accomplished,” she says, the words sharp and bitter. She shakes her head, biting the rest. Iroh is a good man, and she knows that he understands the destructive nature of Fire Nation politics better than anyone else, even Zuko. “But we’re alive now,” she concludes. “I guess that’s something.”

“An admirable accomplishment,” Iroh says softly.

She looks at him. He smiles at her, but the expression is weary enough to match her own. It’s strange to think of Iroh as being _old_ : he’s aged, yes, but there’s always been a sort of strength to him that belies his physical state. This Iroh is worn down, and she finds that to be more terrifying than the kaiju in its own way. “General Iroh?” she asks, her voice quiet. “What’s wrong?”

He doesn’t say anything for a long moment, his hands cupping the tea in meditative silence. “How old are you, Katara?” he asks.

She blinks. “Seventeen. Why?”

“The first kaiju arrived when you were seven, then,” he says. She nods, uncertain where his line of thought is going but willing to hear him out. “When the kaiju first arrived, they only attacked the major coastal cities. The Fire Nation, mostly, where the largest coastal cities are.”

“Yes,” she says slowly. Out of respect for Iroh, she doesn’t add, _And it would have been wonderful if they had just stayed there._ “And then they started attacking smaller cities, and then the inland cities, and then cities that weren’t cities at all,” she says. "And now no place is safe. Why are you telling me this, General?”

He studies her, and Katara gets the feeling that she’s being examined for some unspoken test. She lifts her chin, matching his level gaze with one of her own. “Have you noticed anything about the frequency of kaiju attacks, Katara?” he asks quietly. “You do not have access to the full decade of data, perhaps, but you have a year of experience under your belt now. What can you tell me?”

The hair on the back of her neck stands up at Iroh’s strange tone of voice. Katara takes a deep breath through her nose, determined to stay calm. “Zuko and I have killed four kaiju so far,” she says. “Four in a year. That’s once every three months.”

Except…it’s not.

They fought the first one about four months after Kya Dragon became theirs. The second one was fourteen weeks later; the third was twelve. The fourth was today. That’s four kaiju in a year, but not one every three months. They’re coming faster. _They’re getting bigger, too_ , a voice in her mind whispers. It’s a voice that sounds suspiciously like Zuko, and she remembers the worry in his mind earlier that morning.

“Zuko knows,” she says. She’s surprised how calm her voice sounds.

“It’s not an isolated occurrence,” Iroh says somberly. “The whole world is under attack, and these attacks are becoming much more frequent.” He shakes his head. “The Pact of Nations is considering discontinuing the mecha program entirely.”

Katara stares at him. “How does that make sense? Shouldn’t we be launching _more_ mechas, if anything?”

Iroh shakes his head. “It takes an incredible amount of control and trust, not to mention prowess at bending, to successfully pilot a mecha,” he says. “And those gifted individuals become fewer by the day. Ba Sing Se in particular is pushing for a different program. A ‘wall of life’, they call it.”

“So that’s, what, a giant wall?”

“They are proposing to build a giant wall to keep the kaiju out,” Iroh says. She blinks, a faint ringing starting in her ears. “It has worked for them for centuries. Ozai, whatever you may think of him, is opposing the idea. I find it strange, believe me, to be arguing on the same side as my brother.”

Ozai has done them enough harm that nothing could possibly endear him to Katara. She shakes her impatiently and dismisses him, cutting to the heart of the matter. “The Earth Kingdom is wrong,” she says. “We can’t all hide behind our walls.” She bites her lip. “We’ll keep fighting,” she says fiercely, and she knows that her voice is rising, and she's so viciously _angry_ in a way that she hasn't felt since the death of her mother. “And you have to as well, General. Tell them that the mechas are what’s saving us. Tell them that what we need are more soldiers, more mechas, and that we’ll do whatever it takes. Tell them—tell them that they are _not_ going to leave us to die again!”

Her voice cuts across the silence, seeming to leave almost an echo in the air. Katara slumps back, feeling suddenly drained to the bone. She looks down at her hands in her lap, and she's not surprised to find that they're shaking almost uncontrollably. She clenches them into fists, forcing them to still. It takes her more effort than she thought it would, and eventually, she gives up.

“I will,” Iroh says. His words are gentle and understanding, and that's the worst part. He knows. So does she. And there’s nothing that either of them can do.

She looks down at her bowl. It’s still half-full, but she’s no longer hungry. “Excuse me, General Iroh,” she says, fighting to keep her voice calm. She’s proud of how she succeeds. “Thank you for dinner, but I’ve lost my appetite.”

He nods, the lines in his face seeming deeper than ever. His gaze follow her as she leaves.

* * *

_Then_

As if on cue, another kaiju attacks within the week. And as if by some cosmic joke, Empire’s Glory is ripped apart in the ensuing battle. She’ll give them credit for the kaiju kill, all right, but the victory is a hollow one as Empire’s Glory drifts in a tangled wreck of metal and ice. Sokka laughs, sharp and disbelieving, but all Katara can do is to stare out at the wreckage, feeling numb.

“Well, so much for that,” Sokka says. “Guess we’re all going to die now.” He shakes his head. “Fire Nation. Never trust them.”

From afar, she watches the flight mechas hover over the wreckage. From the rumors, the young blind girl, Toph, is a wondrous metalbender, but salvaging the mecha would probably take a miracle to accomplish. And even if they do fix it, what then? The pilots are dead. There’s no one left to pilot it. No one at all…

She’s shaking, and it’s not from the cold. The drifting metal is a mockery of their hopes and dreams, and she turns her back on it without a second glance. The snow and ice crackles underneath her feet as she makes a beeline for the camp that the emissaries have set up. It’s gray and rundown and pathetic, much like the rest of this whole farce.

It doesn’t take her long to find the prince. He looks startled to see her, but she doesn’t care as she drives him against the wall. He flails in her grasp, and a flash out of the corner of her eye is all the warning she gets before heat blossoms in his swinging fist. She yelps and jumps back, just narrowly avoiding it. “What do you think you’re doing?” he spits.

“What do you think _you’re_ doing?” she snarls back. The ice is broken now, and oh, she wants to savage him with a visceral intensity that frightens even her. “What do you think you’ve done?” She jabs a finger towards the ocean, where the corpse of Empire’s Glory still lies simmering.

He presses his lips together. “I did my duty,” he says at last. “Which is more than I can say for you. You’re not supposed to be in here.”

“I’m not—” Katara breaks off, laughing incredulously. “You sent us your trash,” she says. “We’ve been left out here for years, left to fend for ourselves as your precious Pact of Nations squabbles and fights and leaves _us_ to die. And this is what we get?”

“I don’t have to justify myself to you, peasant!” he shouts. Fire blazes across his hands, and she tenses. “Zhao and Sangok were what you deserved.”

She’s not the strongest waterbender in the world, but they’re on ice here. This is her home, her family, and this stuck-up boy knows nothing about what it means to live here. With one swift movement, she snaps vines of water up around his ankles, locking him tight against the cold. He hisses, his one good eye widening. “A waterbender,” he breathes, and she would feel afraid if she weren’t so absolutely angry. “The reports said that there weren’t any left in the South Pole!”

“I guess the Fire Nation doesn’t control everything,” she says nastily. “Even if you’ve got the Pact of Nations dancing to your tune, there’s still some things you don’t know. You know, you could’ve made an effort to at least _pretend_ that you cared about us.” She takes a deep breath. "And don’t you dare call me a peasant! At least I’m not a coward ready to run and hide at the first sign of battle.” She jerks her chin at the half-full trunks and chests. Perhaps he’s merely a slow unpacker, but she’s not inclined to be charitable at the moment. “Are you running back to your father, then? Hiding behind the Fire Lord and leaving us to die?”

She expects that to set off another childish tantrum, but instead he sets his jaw and gives her a level glare. “I’m not a coward,” he says through clenched teeth. “And I’m not leaving.” He looks down, and without any discernable motion, steams the vines away. Despite his newfound freedom, though, he doesn’t move. Katara looks at him, _really_ looks at him, and it suddenly occurs to her just how tired he looks now that the rage is gone.

She doesn’t want to feel pity for him. It's her family that's in danger, not his. At the same time, though, it's hard to stay angry at someone who looks so absolutely _exhausted_ , and against her will, she finds herself stepping away. His eyes flick up as he tracks her movements, but he doesn't otherwise move.

A long silence ticks by. Katara waits until she can be sure that her voice will be steady before she finally speaks. “You’re staying,” she says, and he gives a tiny nod. “Why?”

For a moment, she thinks that he’s not going to answer, but finally he lets out a small sigh. His shoulders slump. "This is my mission,” he says. “Entrusted to me by my father.” He looks away. “I’m not going to fail.”

She watches him. He looks away, his gaze wandering aimlessly along the walls. “Have you considered,” she says carefully, “that entrusting you with a single old mecha is setting you up for failure?” He doesn’t reply, and she ventures onward. “Do you think that maybe—”

“You don’t know anything about it,” he says quickly, perhaps too quickly. “Don’t presume that you understand what’s going on.”

His tone is aggressive, but his posture is not: he’s almost huddled in on himself, as if trying to hide from something. Katara slowly untenses as the silence drags on; he seems to almost be waiting for a reply of some sort. She exhales, long and slow. “Fine,” she says. “I don’t understand. But there’s a ruined mecha out there, so I hope your plan doesn’t involve throwing chunks of ice at the next kaiju that comes along.”

“You’re a waterbender,” he mutters. “Isn’t that your specialty?”

Strangely enough, it’s perilously close to a joke, something that she would certainly never have expected. She weighs her words for a moment before finally saying, “I’m not a very good one. I’ve practiced some, but I’ve never been trained.”

He looks up, golden eyes finally meeting hers. “You’re not bad,” he says grudgingly. “For a beginner. I mean.”

“I don’t need your compliments,” she says firmly. “Just your plan.” Silence. “You do have one? Or are you going to run away?”

“I’m not going to run away,” he growls. “I’m just—ugh! I don’t have a plan, all right? I don’t. I have one broken mecha, a shell of a dome, two dead pilots, and nothing. That’s it. It’s over.”

“So why, then?” she presses, her voice low and sharp. “What’s the point of coming out here at all, then, if they won’t even defend us properly?”

He gives her a sidelong glance, smiling bitterly. “Why are playing blind? You’ve already guessed it,” he says at last. “This is about me. I’m a failure. I’ll always be a failure, whether it’s as a mecha pilot, a mission commander, or most of all, as a prince. This whole mission is one giant hope by my father that I’ll finally get myself killed off properly or humiliated beyond all saving so that Azula can rule.”

She stares at him. “You’re saying that this entire mission is some sort of—some kind of glorified suicide mission? That we’re just—we’re just pawns, just props for your little tragedy?” She takes a breath in a futile attempt to stem the growing tide of rage, but the roaring in her ears tells her that that’s not going to happen. “We deserve better than this!” she says, and now she’s shouting, her hands clenched in fists. “You and your father, what did you do to him? Try to stab him in the back? And now he’s dumped _you_ onto us, leaving my family to die!”

“I didn’t try to stab him in the back!” Zuko shouts, and she wants to laugh at the sheer absurdity—of all the screwed-up things in this situation, _that’s_ what he focuses on? “I never did anything to him! I—”

“Oh, don’t pretend you’re the victim in all this,” she hisses. “It’s not your family on the line. It’s not your home. It’s just your precious honor and your reputation in the eyes of a bunch of politicians, and in the grand scheme of things, that means nothing! You know why? Because it means nothing if you’re _dead!_ And in the meantime, you’ll take my tribe down with you!”

He shakes his head. “You’re wrong,” he says. “This isn’t what you think—”

“What is it, then?” she demands. “Tell me it’s not some kind of farce. Tell me that the endgame is something than us all dying by kaiju because of your stupid fight with your father. Tell me that there’s something else here, because all I’m seeing is a giant mess that you created and that we’re trapped in.” Zuko’s eyes flit away from hers, and she grabs his chin and forces him to look her in the eye. “But you won’t. Because you can’t.”

His features twist in something akin to a snarl, and he knocks her hand away. “I didn’t ask for this, either,” he snaps. He takes a step away. “I wanted to be a pilot. I trained to be one. I just couldn’t link with anyone, couldn’t Drift with anyone: not the best firebenders of my father’s army, and none of the water or earthbenders that the Pact supplied. So now I’m here. Useless.” He makes a terrible rictus of a smile. “Waiting to die.”

Katara inhales deeply in the ensuing silence. “No,” she says at last, feeling eerily calm. “No, that’s not going to happen.” She steps forward, stabbing him in the chest with a finger. “You got us into this mess. You’re going to get us out of it.”

“And how exactly do you plan to do that? Our only pilots are—” he begins, and then his eyes widen as he _finally_ seems to comprehend. “We don’t even know if the mecha can be repaired!” he says. “And even if it is—you’re not trained. Not as a pilot, not as a waterbender, not—”

Katara narrows her eyes. He clamps his mouth shut. “Then we'd better get started,” she says.

* * *

_Now_

Zuko’s asleep when she opens the door to their shared room, but he wakes up as she opens the door. He’s always been a light sleeper, she knows, and there’s a brief glow of flame in his palm before he catches sight of her. “Sorry,” she murmurs. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

He douses the flame before raking his free hand through his hair. It’s getting long again, and she wonders vaguely how long it’ll take before he crops it all off again. “It’s fine. I wasn’t sleeping well anyway,” he says.

She sits down on her bunk. Sometimes, she’s not entirely sure why they have separate beds, but other times, like now, she feels like it’s best that they have some space. She watches as he lights the lamp next to their bed, the fire casting shadows over his face. “Bad dreams?” she asks lightly.

He shrugs. “Nothing that I haven’t had before.” He lifts his head up, meeting her gaze. A long moment of silence trickles by before he shakes his head and sighs a little. “You talked to Uncle.”

She doesn’t ask how he knows. Sometimes, she thinks that they could have whole conversations without ever talking even outside the intimacy of the Drift. She should feel violated, but at the same time, the mental intimacy can also be strangely comforting. “Yes,” she says. She runs a finger across the sheets. “He told me that they’re thinking of discontinuing the mechas.”

“The missives from Ba Sing Se seem convinced that it’ll work,” he says.

“It’s a stupid idea—”

“I know,” Zuko interrupts. “I don’t think the people talking about it have stepped outside of the city in their lives, but that’s politics for you.” He shakes his head. "If it makes you feel better, I don't think it will affect us too much. Fire Lord Ozai thinks it's a waste of time. Ba Sing Se can do as it likes, but a wall will never work for the Fire Nation."

Katara curls her knees up to her chest and rests her head on her knees, watching him. "You agree with your father?" she says as delicately as possible.

He snorts. "I wouldn't go that far," he says. "But it doesn't take a genius to realize that the wall is a stupid idea. The Earth King is too blind to see beyond the walls of his city." His hand makes an aborted movement as if to reach out to her, but his hand flutters for a moment before settling back into his lap. "So you don't have to worry. About that, at least."

"General Iroh seemed to think that there was room for worry," she says.

Zuko shrugs. "Uncle always worries about the politics, but that fight is one that will never end. We just have to make sure that kaiju stay off the coast." He fiddles with the sheet. "The Fire Nation will always look after themselves first, Pact of Nations or not," he says. "But even if they cut us off entirely, we'll be fine."

His voice sounds laconic, almost detached as he speaks about his home--former home? It's difficult to say. She doesn't miss the distinction between _we_ and  _they_ in that sentence, and she wonders for a brief moment who exactly he's referring to with those terms. "You seem confident," she says instead of delving into that particular question. "We still depend on the Fire Nation for supplies and repairs."

He waves a hand dismissively. "All you really need is a really good metalbender, and we have one." The side of his lips quirks briefly in what might be a smile. "Although Toph might object to be called just 'really good' instead of, I don't know, 'spectacularly awesome'. Anyway. I didn't say it would be easy, but it can be done."

He might be lying, but she doubts that. More likely he's brushing over the truth in an attempt to make her feel better, which is nice, somewhat, if misguided. She doesn't need to be protected, not when it's her family's lives that hang in the balance. It's hard to say how she should feel about that: patronized, perhaps? Frustrated? But what leaps to mind isn't any of that; it's really just...

She sighs, gusty and deep. "You all right?" Zuko asks quietly.

It's a ridiculous question: she's not all right. Neither of them are. There's only so long they can be thrown into war before even the most determined spirit begins to erode, but that's all they can do. "Fine," she says instead of saying any of that, because saying it means nothing, accomplishes nothing. "Just tired."

She scrubs her palms across her face. When she looks up, she finds that Zuko is watching her, his gaze oddly calm and steady despite the turbulence that must be rushing through his mind. Wordlessly, he moves aside on his bed to make room for her, and just as wordlessly, she steps across the room and takes the offered place. It's another ritual, what they do here, and it keeps her sane. Beyond that, she doesn't question it.

He curls an arm around her, and she presses her face deeply into his shoulder. Zuko runs warmer than the average person--she's not entirely sure if that's because he's a firebender, or if that's just some physical quirk. Either way, it's a comfort against the chill of the South Pole, and strangely enough, it even manages to quell some of the chill shuddering through her spine. She breathes in, out, unconsciously matching the pattern of her breathing to his.

It's a long moment before he speaks again, the rumble of his chest vibrating with every word. "There's a festival tonight, isn't there?"

She moves her shoulders in a rough approximation of a shrug. "Tired," she says briefly, not bothering to add more. Sokka would pester her to go if he weren't busy with the mecha; Hakoda would remind her of her duty to her family. Zuko simply nods, his breath stirring her hair as he breathes in and out, slow and steady. He doesn't push for further details, and somehow, that makes it easier to give them.

She takes a breath. "I'm scared," she confesses softly, the words lingering in the privacy of darkness. She doesn't admit it often. She _can't_ , because if she ever does in the midst of battle, there's no way that she can continue to stand against eldritch monsters that threaten to destroy everything and everyone she loves. But if she can't confess the truth, if not here in this sanctuary of their room--then, well, where?

She can feel him shudder, long and slow. "So am I," he says at last.

"Do you think it'll ever end?" she whispers.

It's a foolish, fragile, desperate question. She doesn't expect a real answer, because how can he know? The kaiju have no answers. They appeared one day, and they've never stopped, and that is that. She can recall faintly a time when they didn't come, but there are far more memories of desperation and loss. And now, memories of the torrent of water, bright, arcing flames, the scream of kaiju resonating in her ears...

"Maybe," he says finally.

She opens her eyes, startled out of her reverie. "What do you mean?"

Zuko blows out a long breath, his gaze flitting restlessly around the room. "I used to think that--well." He clears his throat. "There were rumors when the kaiju first started appearing. I used to think that they were spread by Earth Kingdom propagandists, but now...now I'm not so sure."

"What do you mean?" she asks, frowning slightly. "What rumors? I never heard anything..."

"Because Ozai did a very good job of crushing them," Zuko says, sounding wry. "But he couldn't silence everyone." He hesitates, then asks, "Do you know what happened during Sozin's Comet more than a hundred years ago?"

The name is familiar, even though she knows that it shouldn't be. Something tasting of fire, tinged with the light of the Drift. She closes her eyes and takes a breath, settling into that familiar headspace. Slowly, delicately, a memory floats up, unbidden: old, dusty scrolls, the Fire Nation throne room, long tapestries adorning the walls...

She opens her eyes. "Yes," she says with calm certainty. He meets her gaze, his mouth twisted in a faint smile. "It powers up firebending. Named after Fire Lord Sozin because he used it to destroy the Air Nomads."

“Right," he says. He doesn’t ask how she knows; he knows the answer to that perfectly well. "When the kaiju first came, they attacked the Fire Nation cities first. You can argue that's because they went after the coastal cities first, and the Fire Nation is nothing but coastal cities, but...well, some people had other theories. There were rumors--a lot of them--that it was a punishment for destroying the Air Nomads and ending the Avatar cycle. That the spirits were angry with us for destroying the balance of the world.”

His voice is a bare whisper by the end of the story. She ponders it for a moment, running the words through her head. "Do you believe that?" she asks at length, and she feels him shrug under her. "I'm going to take a guess and say that your father doesn't."

"If he does, he's done a very good job of ignoring it," Zuko says. "And Azula doesn't care either way; she's having the time of her life destroying the kaiju. Me...well, I didn’t for a long time. I thought it was Earth Kingdom propaganda. When the kaiju started attacking Earth Kingdom cities as well, I thought that was the end of that lie. But the more I think about it, the more—the more I start to see it.” He pauses. “My father is not a very nice man," he adds, his voice dry. "None of my ancestors were.”

She smiles at the massive understatement, but it quickly slips off her face. "So it's just a story, then," she says. "There's nothing we can do, seeing as the Air Nomads are gone. Unless you think there is," she adds, and she's careful to keep her tone neutral. She's learned the hard way that it doesn't do to bring too much resentment into the Drift, and at any rate, this isn't Zuko's fault. "We can't bring back the dead."

"No," he says softly. "We can't, can we."

The words linger in the air, heavy and somber. There are _so many_ _dead_ , she knows, and for a horrible, aching moment, she wants her mother back. Kya, killed in the very first wave of kaiju attacks, her blood spilling across the ice in an unstoppable rush of memory. Years after the mechas had been deployed to guard the Fire and Earth borders, the Southern Water Tribe was still struggling to survive, running and hiding from threats that could never be killed, only delayed...

Katara shivers as a sudden chill sweeps through her. Zuko's arm tightens around her, and he exhales slowly. His body temperature slowly rises to adjust, and she curls deeper into that warmth. "You okay?" he asks at length.

"Yeah," she says. "I'm good."

She's not, really, but here in the darkness, she can at least pretend. The quiet lulling her into a false sense of peace, Katara closes her eyes. She'll take what illusions she can.

* * *

The kaiju come, one after the other. Sooner and sooner, larger and larger; a never-ending tidal-wave that threatens to overwhelm the South Pole. They fight—together, minds joined, fire and ice tied together. It's their only option, out here in the tundra; no walls will protect them here. Against the kaiju, there’s only the two of them in the heart of the mecha, fighting what seems to be a desperately losing battle. A kaiju dead means another couple months of safety, and that's all that matters. She clings to that thought desperately, even when the battle seems never-ending. What else can they do?

They're getting smarter. Coming in pairs, learning new tricks, attacking in patterns that leave Katara and Zuko scrambling to compensate. One they can deal with, two--well, two kaiju, two _coordinated_ kaiju, that's another story altogether. She slams their palms against the ice, entombing one kaiju temporarily. Zuko sends a fireball flying towards the second one, a streak of fire blazing across its eyes as it falls back, screeching. It recovers quickly, though, faster than they expected, and with a shuddering crash, the first one wrenches itself free. As Katara sends a hailstorm of icicles flying at the first kaiju ahead of them, the second one lashes out, coiling around their mecha's midsection and trapping the blade arm and crumpling it with seemingly no effort.

Zuko curses as pain lances through them, slicing viciously across their side. They stagger as they try to pull free, but there's a gap in the armor now, the joints weakened beyond repair. The second kaiju claws at their arm, the screech echoing and shaking the mecha, and then the first kaiju attacks again, slamming across the ankles and ripping out the cords in a spray of sparks. Katara stumbles hard as the metal gives way, sending them crashing against the ice. Pain. Every muscle is on fire, and she cries out in synchrony with the crushing of metal.

She reaches out almost instinctively to Zuko. He meets her halfway, and his thoughts are blazing with determination. _I can set fire to the fuel cells_ , he says grimly to her, and she understands in a flash of insight what that means. It will destroy the mecha, an inevitable explosion that just might wipe the kaiju out. And they will be done. This is their last stand, and the realization is as sharp and vivid as the cut of a knife.

 _Do it,_ she says. Take them down now, hit them where it hurts. We tried our best, it's up to you now, we can't hold on forever--"Now!"

Zuko nods. His eyes close in concentration, fire blazes anew, heat surges through their broken skeleton. And then there's light. Blinding light. Something is howling, screeching, the terrible scream of grinding metal and swirling wind and dying kaiju and then--

* * *

 

She dreams that she's dead. She dreams that she's home again, curled in her mother's arms. She dreams that she's lost in a storm, pinned down under a kaiju, clawing desperately in an attempt to break free. There's the wave crashing over her, and swimming only prolongs the inevitable. There's only so long she can keep struggling, and when your fate is already sealed, why even try? Why fight against the unbreakable tide when there's no shore in sight?

She lets the sea take her. It's whispering something, soft and melodic, and she tilts her head to listen to its song. She's given up enough, after all, and there can't be any harm in indulging this one small whim, is there? Curious, she floats closer, moving dreamily through the blue darkness. The words fade in and out of comprehension, the tone bright and joyful in a way that Katara hasn't heard in a very long time. _You're_ here...the whispers say, and she gasps softly in relief. _H_ _ome now...alive..._

Alive?

"--and I hope I didn't throw you about too much because I really didn't mean to do that, but at least the weird monsters are dead now--"

Katara frowns. Reluctantly, she opens her eyes.

"--and we can--oh! Hi!" the boy says. He's bald, with strange tattoos across his head and arms, but what captures her attention is that his eyes are bright and so desperately innocent that all Katara can do is stare. He's moving about from foot to foot--not nervously in the way that Sokka does, but almost as if just for the sheer joy of movement. "You're alive! That was pretty scary, huh? What were those things? I tried asking the other guy, but he didn't seem very talkative. Is he always that grumpy? Oh, I think your brother wants to see you. He was here all day but he finally fainted and then some people took him away." He sucks in a breath. "Are you okay?"

She stares wordlessly at him. He grins brightly back at her, clearly unperturbed, and it takes Zuko moving into her line of sight for her to realize that she's not still dreaming. He looks terrible: his arm is wrapped in a splint held close to his chest, and the shadows on his face are deeper than ever. But he smiles as he approaches, weary as it might be, and there's still that spark in his eyes. Strangely, now stronger than ever.

"Zuko," she says faintly, and his free hand comes down and holds hers tight. It's an anchor that she clings to desperately. "We're alive?" He squeezes her hand and nods. "And this is...?"

"I'm Aang," the boy announces. He jabs a thumb over his shoulder. "And Appa's outside. Can we go penguin-sledding?"

She opens her mouth for a moment before closing it again. The penguins died out years ago from the kaiju onslaught, but she doesn't quite have the heart to tell him that. In the same vein, she can't bring herself to say that this boy, whoever he is, _whatever_ he is, should have done the same over a century ago. She looks up at Zuko for reassurance, and he squeezes her hand. In the strange, synchronous matter of the Drift, she knows with absolute certainty that they're both thinking the same thing. Puzzlement--desperation--hope--

Maybe she's found the shore.

 


End file.
